


I'll Go Back and Edit This When I've Thought of  Something Clever

by ladyblahblah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's blog is meant to  be a therapeutic tool.  That means he has to write down <em>everything</em>  that happens to him, not just the bits he thinks people will find  exciting.  Thank god for private entries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Go Back and Edit This When I've Thought of  Something Clever

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so everyone involved in this fandom has to write one of these eventually, right?  I mean, they can't give us a line like "ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool" and expect us to do _nothing_.  So I figured I'd just get it over with right away.  I have been assured by a reputable ninja that this is not too grotesquely out of character, so if it is . . . um, blame her? :erm:  Really, it has gratuitous, unrepentant smut.  What more do you want from me?
> 
> Major spoilers for The Great Game; minor ones for A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker.

 

 

Right.  Well.  First private entry, this.  Going well so far.

My therapist, gem that she is, reminded me last session that this blog is “meant to be a therapeutic tool, so you should be writing about _everything_ that happens, John.  Not just the exciting bits.”  Said I obviously wouldn’t want to publish anything overly personal, but wanted me to be sure to keep a record of it all in any case.  I assured her that I had been, but she knew I was full of it.  Either I’m a shit liar or she’s keen on the _science of deduction_ herself.  Perhaps she and Sherlock should meet for a coffee.

Oh lord.  That might be the most frightening thought I’ve ever had, which after last week is really saying something.

And I’m stalling now.  _Private_ entry.  Nothing to fear here.

It’s not that I don’t want to remember it.  I do.  I really, really do.  But it just seems . . . too personal, I suppose.  Like writing down the words will cheapen it somehow.

All right, that’s a lie, and yes, I do seem to be complete rubbish at that.  Also, if I’ve come down to lying to _myself_ that has to be a bad sign, hasn’t it?  Right then.  The truth, ridiculous as it may be, is that I have this mad, superstitious fear that if I talk about it, if I write about it, it’ll turn out not to have really happened.  And if I’m dreaming up things like this then I’ll officially have gone mad.  Madder, even, than people thought I was to agree to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes in the first place.

Stalling again.  Man up, John.

I don’t quite know where to start.  The beginning’s the obvious place, but for the real beginning of all of this I’d probably have to go back to second form and Percy Phelps and the upperclassman’s party we weren’t meant to be at.  At the very least I’d have to go back to the start of that night and I just . . .

I’ll write that all out.  I will.  Just . . . not yet.  I can’t.  I can’t even _think_ about it yet without bringing on nightmares.  Worse than my ones of the war, because at least with those I know straightaway when I’ve woken up.  Quite a difference between a battlefield and a bedroom in a London flat, even when Sherlock’s experimenting with his chemicals again.  These, though, I can never be certain I was just dreaming until I . . .

So.  Afterwards.  Smoke and dust and noise and the thing about almost dying—the thing that no one who hasn’t been there ever truly understands—is that the _dying_ part doesn’t really sink in until later.  In the immediate aftermath it’s the _almost_ you’re focused on; the might-have-didn’t-quite and when you _haven’t_ died what you _have_ done is survive.  Is live.  That’s what I remember most about the moments after everything went pear-shaped.  Against all odds I had survived again, lived again, and it felt absolutely fucking _brilliant_.

The next thing I remember is Sherlock’s face.  My ears were still ringing, so I couldn’t actually hear anything he was saying, but he looked to be shouting at me in a desperate, panicked sort of way.  It’s all in his eyes, really, and now I’m letting myself get distracted again when what was happening was that I was trying to reassure him I was all right as he hauled me to my feet, without actually being able to hear my own voice.

Lestrade and the others had gone already, running after Moriarty I presume, and however many of his accomplices they could manage to catch.  It occurred to me then as odd that Sherlock hadn’t been right along with them—he had never, in my admittedly short experience, been satisfied with the more passive role when on a case—but I was rather distracted by the fact that I was beginning to be able to hear myself again.  I sounded awful, which I suppose isn’t too surprising with my lungs full of smoke and dust and heaven knew what else.  I cleared my throat and clasped my hands on Sherlock’s shoulders until he fixed his wide, startled gaze on mine.

“I’m all right,” I said, trying to speak slowly and clearly for my own sake as much as his.  “Just shaken up, I think.”

I should have known better than to try to move just then, but in my own defense I really _was_ shaken.  Standing on a still-smoldering bombsite will do that to a man.  My legs started to give out before I took a full step; Sherlock’s reflexes proved as impeccable as ever, though, and he caught me embarrassingly easily.  You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s almost amazingly strong.  Really.  Freakishly, superhuman-strong at times.  In any case, he set me back on my feet and to my surprise immediately began running his hands over my arms, my shoulders, my chest and onwards.  There was something frantic in his movements, like I might be bleeding out at that very moment and he simply hadn’t found the wound yet.

“I’m really—”

“So help me, John,” he interrupted, “if you say ‘all right’ again I’ll gag you.  You’re _not_ all right; you’re in shock.”  He looked up then as though something had just occurred to him.  “Do you need a blanket?”

Luckily he didn’t wait for a response, as I had genuinely no idea how to answer that.  Instead he bent back to his task, though the words seemed to have opened the floodgates.

“You’re not _all right_.  Not in any sane sense of the words.  You’ve just been very nearly blown up, John, do you understand that at all?  And why?  Because of your _heroics_ ,” he spat.  “Did you once, even _once_ stop to simply _think_ —”

“Sherlock.”

He was bending down to check my legs, I think, when I pulled him back up again.  My hands were cupping his face—to keep him still, I think, and focused.  Or maybe not.  Maybe I simply wanted to touch him, to reassure myself of his presence as he was assuring himself of mine.  Maybe I had already given in.  I don’t know, really.  All I know is that my hands were on his face when our eyes met, and he made a frustrated, helpless sound, and kissed me.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of it before.  It had been very long time since I’d been with a man—a very long time—but I did manage to recognize my own interest when we first met.  My bisexuality, it seemed, had been dormant, not dead.  However, I was convinced in about ten minutes flat that trying to pursue anything there would be mad.  Utterly, completely mad.

So yes, I’d built up a bit of a crush, but it was just one of those things you know will never lead anywhere.  I enjoyed looking at Sherlock, certainly, and watching and listening while he makes those terrifyingly brilliant leaps—well, I say ‘leaps’ but they only seem that way to those of us with brains working at a normal human speed—is always enough to get me a bit . . . well, excited.  It was actually quite horrifying the day he amused himself by analyzing every third person to walk past our flat.  But I suppose that’s beside the point.  Because the simple fact is that I couldn’t imagine a casual relationship between flatmates ending in anything other than complete disaster, and a proper relationship—the sort, if I’m honest, that I’d have wanted—was simply unthinkable.  I couldn’t possibly become that intimately involved with someone who simply didn’t care.  Who _couldn’t_ care.

Except that all evidence that night pointed to a far different conclusion, didn’t it?  His frantic attempts to rid me of the bomb.  His ignored insistence that I stay where it was safe.  His need to determine, at the cost of chasing down the man who had now almost certainly supplanted his brother, that I was, again, uninjured.  Sherlock _was_ capable of caring for someone after all.

All of which brought me back to that moment, and his kiss, and the realization that we seemed to reach at the same time that I was simply stood there like a twit as he murmured, “John, my John,” against my lips.  I felt him stiffen, begin to pull away, and whatever nattering on my brain had been doing to that point simply shut off.  Had I been less occupied I might have told Sherlock that yes, it was quite a nice feeling after all.  Instead I yanked him closer and began, at last, to kiss him back.

His response was enthusiastic to say the least.  It was hardly a minute before he had me pressed back against the wall, chunks of it missing from the blast and the jagged edges jabbing at me but I didn’t care because it felt . . . god.  Amazing, absolutely bloody amazing to be kissing him like that.  His mouth is the stuff wet dreams are made of; completely, unfairly gorgeous, and I was licking at the corners of it like I’d imagined doing fifty or sixty times since we’d met.

It seemed to me that it might have been quite some time since he’d done anything like this.  He was good at the beginning, very good, but there was almost a lag in his response time whenever one of us did something new, as though it took him a moment to remember exactly how this all worked.  A long-neglected file on his harddrive, I suppose.  He accessed the data soon enough, though, and the man has the same irritating genius for that sort of thing as he does for everything else.  I can’t actually remember the last time I was kissed so thoroughly that I almost didn’t notice the hands unfastening my trousers.

I did pull back as best I could when I noticed, gasping for him to wait.

“ _What_ , John?” he nearly snarled, frustrated as he ever is when I manage to distract him from a particularly promising line of evidence.  The comparison wasn’t unappealing.

“You’re not actually going to rip my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool,” I smiled up at him.  (Yes, I’ll admit my stomach may have gone a bit fluttery at the sensation of looking _up_ at my partner.  He’s just so damned tall, and like most things about him it’s annoying and compelling in equal measures.)  He released his hold on me, and I took his hand, squeezing it once simply, I admit, because I could.  “Let’s go home.”

It left me feeling, sappy as I know it sounds, sort of warm and . . . and _settled_ to think of Baker Street as home.  _Our_ home, and if that thought was a bit terrifying it at least didn’t have long to linger, as Sherlock was pulling me along through the rubble and outside.

Without the heat from the water and, well, the smoldering bits of building, the air was . . . let’s say ‘bracing’.  That sounds suitably manly, doesn’t it?  In lay terms, though, it was cold enough to freeze your balls off, and my coat hadn’t survived the night.  Pity, that; I quite liked it.  In any case, I was shivering rather badly, and with my attention rather neatly divided between the risk of hypothermia and Sherlock’s hand still gripping mine, the trip home is all sort of a blur.  I vaguely remember Sherlock pulling out his phone, texting one-handed to inform Lestrade that we were headed back to Baker Street.  We rode back in what might have been a cab but was probably a police car now I think of it, as I seem to recall Sherlock press-ganging one of the young-looking officers still milling about with words like _shock_ and _emotional trauma_ and _compensation_.

What I do remember, and quite clearly, is that the ride back was silent.  But though neither of us spoke, Sherlock never released my hand until we walked into the sitting room.

Our flat was gloriously warm, but the temperature seemed to fall markedly when Sherlock finally dropped my hand.  He glanced at me and quickly away, apparently reluctant to meet my eyes.

“I understand,” he said abruptly, picking up a section of that day’s newspaper only to set it down again immediately, “that behavior people may exhibit in the heat of the moment, after nearly dying, is not necessarily in keeping with what they might find desirable or even acceptable under normal circumstances.”  He took a deep breath and glanced at me again; I’ve no idea now if it was only my imagination that his eyes seemed to linger on my lips, but it seemed so at the time.  “I have no intention of holding you to what happened.  I realize that you are . . . committed elsewhere.”  I _am_ sure that I didn’t imagine his slight sneer of distaste at that.  “If you want to go on as though nothing happened, I will of course entirely understand.”

So.  I was caught off-guard.  I’m not proud to admit it, I hadn’t even considered Sarah until he said that.  And he was right; we hadn’t had any sort of a conversation about it, and there was nothing that you might call officially decided between us, but there was a definite sort of relationship implication there.  For god’s sake, I’d been on my way to see her when I’d been nabbed by Moriarty’s men.  

She’s a lovely girl, and we . . . well, we were nice together.  Nice and safe and quiet and normal.

I’d known Sherlock just over twenty-four hours when I managed to get kidnapped, become involved in a drugs bust, and shoot a man dead.  Since we’d been flatmates I’d been kidnapped multiple times, shot at, strapped with explosives, and all around come rather closer to death than I’d prefer on a fairly regular basis.  Sherlock was fascinating, arousing, compelling.  He was also irritating, confusing, frustrating, and would almost certainly end up getting me killed.

A better man would have taken time to think things through—a day or two, at least.  He’d have ended things definitively with one or the other of them before he leapt into bed with either.  It took me exactly as much time to decide as it took for Sherlock’s face to close off and for him to step out of reach.  All I could think was that here, in this flat, was everything I wanted.  That mouth and those lips and those eyes, that staggering intellect and yes, the danger.  Adventure, excitement.  Trying to explain basic human emotion over take-away of varying edibility; being allowed to rip his clothes off and suck him dry when he’d been especially brilliant.

My hands were on his face again before he’d taken more than two steps, this time with full knowledge of what I planned to do.  I pulled him down to me, rather childishly delighted at the look on his face; it’s absurdly difficult to surprise the man, and I always feel proud all out of proportion when I manage it.  For once I didn’t bother to savor the feeling, though, being rather more concerned with getting his mouth on mine again.

His surprise never lasts long, though, thank god, and he rarely needs the verbal explanations that most people require to figure out what the bloody hell is going on.  Either that, or he very simply didn’t care about my reasoning.  He was tugging at my jumper in seconds, fighting his way past it and the shirt beneath to send his fingers playing up and down my spine.  I pressed closer with a sound I’d likely be embarrassed to make at any other time.  That only lasted a moment, though, before I was tugging at him, heading for the stairs and struggling a bit when he redirected us.

“My bedroom,” he finally gasped out.  “Closer.”  Do you see what I mean?  Brilliant.

I’d never been in his room before.  I’d always been curious about it, and would’ve liked to poke about a bit.  Not as much as I wanted him naked, though, so that took priority.  His body is a study in contrasts, as I’d already come to know by his habit of forgetting to shut the bathroom door when he’s getting ready in the mornings.  Pale skin I was delighted to find was as soft as it looked, over muscle so lean you hardly knew it was there until you felt it.  Soft curls and sharp angles, and all of him bared to my greedy eyes and hands and mouth as swiftly as I could manage.  My fingers stuttered over the nicotine patches that dotted his left arm; it was the only one of my touches that he shied away from, apparently worried they might come loose.  He made up for it by attaching his lips to my throat and sucking what proved later to be a rather spectacular bruise into life.

We went on like that for . . . I’ve no idea how long, actually.  It was hard and rough and just a little mean, as much teeth as lips or tongues, nails scratching and digging in for every careful, gentle touch.  I don’t know if I wanted to hurt him so much as mark him, communicate how unwilling I was to let him have this with anyone else.  If his work was his jealous wife then I suppose that cast me in the role of the demanding mistress.  You know what, I don’t care.  If traditional gender roles keep me from feeling his skin hot and naked against mine, then fuck ‘em.

Whether he was feeling anything remotely similar I can’t say.  Unhealthy and codependent as it may be, though, I can’t help but hope that he was.

Unsurprisingly, I was the one to crack first.  “For god’s sake, Sherlock,” I groaned as he started a rough but exploratory line of kisses across my chest.  “Stop bloody teasing and fuck me already.”

He lifted his head at that, not surprised but very clearly intrigued.  “Is that what you want, John?”  He trailed a finger over the scar at my shoulder for a moment before sliding both hands down my sides, playing lingeringly over my ribs as he might over piano keys.

“Yes,” I gasped out, unable to think beyond the image of him over me, inside of me, stretching and filling and—

Ah.  Had to take a bit of a break just there.  Moving on, then.

Sherlock didn’t waste any time after that; whether it was because he took pity on me or simply couldn’t wait any longer himself I neither knew nor cared.  What mattered was him reaching into his bedside table for lube and a condom—not things I’d have formerly expected him to keep on-hand—and pressing one long, slick finger inside of me.

It had been years since I’d even touched myself like that, so it took a bit longer than I’d anticipated to get me ready.  Almost too long, in fact, as just the knowledge that those fingers were inside of me, opening me up and spreading me wide, very nearly had me coming then and there.  I was sweating by the time he pulled his hand away, moaning and begging like I was being paid for it.  I could feel his hands trembling against my legs as he spread and lifted them further.  There was something in his eyes I’d never seen there before, something that I thought I might recognize anyway.  I’ll forgive myself my superstition here; I won’t risk it by giving it a name.

It hurt when he pushed slowly into me, and never having been one to prolong that sort of thing I simply locked my legs around his hips and tugged hard, catching him off-guard and pulling him all the way in.  My teeth sank into his shoulder to muffle a scream and I could just make out, through the haze of pain, his hands sliding into my hair.  His temple was pressed to mine, both of us sweating now, and I heard him murmur an apology as his hips began to move.

The pain gradually melted away, leaving only Sherlock moving over me, in me, his lips just grazing my cheek as I began to rock back against him.  I needed more; more of him, more of this, just _more_.  It had been ages since I’d felt anything like it.  I don’t know that I’d ever felt anything so good, actually.  I remember looking down, curving my back to look between us to the point where we met.  The sight of it, the wet heat of his breath against my ear, the image of my own cock hard and leaking against my stomach, all had the knot of pleasure building at the base of my spine coiling tighter and tighter.

I reached down to stroke myself almost as an afterthought; Sherlock looked down at the feel of my knuckles brushing against his stomach, and with a strangled moan he started to move even faster, harder.  His arm curled around my back then, tilting my hips to sink deeper, and by what I’m very nearly certain was design began to hit my prostate on every thrust.

I couldn’t scream, couldn’t moan, couldn’t do anything bt shake and try to gasp soundlessly for breath.  I was glad of it, too, when I realized that Sherlock had begun to stutter out frantic, broken French.  I honestly don’t think it’s paranoid to suspect that he chose that particular language because he knew I’d failed my first year of it and switched over to German back in secondary school.  Regardless of being unable to understand him, though, just the sound of it set something off in me.  I could hear my name every now and then, interspersed with slurred consonants and long, drawn-out vowels moaned into my hair.

I was close, so close to the edge, and all it took was Sherlock breathing out my name against my lips for me to rocket over.  I came hard enough for my vision to blacken just a bit around the edges, tunneling my vision down to Sherlock as his hips stuttered and jerked and his teeth caught at my bottom lip as he shuddered his way through his own orgasm.  He collapsed on top of me but only stayed there for a moment before rolling to the side, slipping out of me in the process.

It was quiet in the aftermath, just the sounds of our breathing and my heartbeat in my ears gradually slowing to something less likely to lead to cardiac arrest.  As neither of us spoke, though, I started to feel awkward in that way you can only quite manage when you’re naked and sticky and you realize that you’ve had nothing even approaching a proper conversation with the person lying next to you about what it means that you’re both in this state.  I hadn’t felt it since before Afghanistan, and it turns out that with all of the aspects of civilian life that I’d missed, that had never quite managed to make the list.

I was just starting to wonder if I ought to gather up my clothes and head upstairs when Sherlock’s fingers inched over to slide between my own.

“You may as well enjoy it, John,” he said, his flippant tone slightly undermined by the fact that he still hadn’t quite got his breath back.  “That’s as quiet as I’m ever likely to get.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that.  “ _That’s_ you being quiet, is it?”

“Well.”  I could hear the smirk in his voice.  “Relatively.”  And then, more quietly, “Stay.”

I did.

Good job I did, too, as we went at each other twice more before I finally fell asleep.  I don’t know if Sherlock slept at all; I suspect not, but that’s hardly anything new or surprising.  He was already gone when I woke up, but things were as normal as ever over breakfast, apart from the fact that Sherlock cooked, and ducked under the table at one point to suck me off, which more than made up for the runny eggs.

It’s been a week now, and we . . . I’m not sure, but I think we might be dating.  Sort of.  We haven’t shagged every night, but four out of seven seems perfectly respectable.    We’ve slept together—actually slept, at least on my part—every night after, and Sherlock is always in the midst of making breakfast by the time I get up, morning lie-ins being something I _did_ miss while I was in the army.  All the other days I’ve cooked, and as Lestrade hasn’t brought ‘round any new cases, at night we watch telly or go see one of the underground concerts Sherlock’s mad for, and it’s just all very . . . domestic.  Only, looking back, it’s really no different to how it was before, apart from that I don’t go out to see Sarah after and my discovery that Sherlock is, among other things, remarkably bendy.

I suppose we should talk about things.  Scratch that, I _know_ we should talk about things.  But I don’t want to demand a definition of what we are and where we stand and do I call him my boyfriend if someone asks.  I also don’t want him to get frightened off if I happen to mention something that touches on actual feeling or emotion.

Perhaps I’ll just continue to play it by ear and see how things go.  And it looks like I owe my therapist an apology, because I think this actually has helped.  Suppose I’ll have to make a habit of it.

Oh, and one more thing before I post this and sign off: Sherlock, when you finally get bored enough to hack my account and read this, let me know and we’ll have that talk.  Also, we’re running low on lube, so you might make yourself useful and pick some up.  Cheers.

 

 

**6 comments**

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You need an editor.  Some of the above prose has a distinctly purple tinge to it; and while I’m flattered, I’m not entirely sure you haven’t grossly exaggerated some aspects.  Occasionally I despair of making a proper scientist out of you, John Watson.

Tell me, how does my time compare with your expectations?  
[  
Sherlock Holmes](http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/) 2 May 19:37

 

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How on earth did you manage to post a comment?  The fact that you know more about how to work this thing than I do is vaguely unsettling, I’ll have you know.

It took you longer than I’d guessed, actually; I figured on days, not weeks.  We are low on lube again, though, so be sure to pick some up on your way home.

(I’m going to very generously ignore your criticism of something you _weren’t meant to read in the first place_.)

[John Watson](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/) 2 May 19:40

 

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How can we be out of lube when I’ve not been there for the past two weeks?  I’d ask if you were cheating on me if not for the fact that it’s patently obvious you’re not.  In any case it’s equally clear that it’s your own fault if we’re nearly out, so you should be the one to get more.  Isn’t that the argument you always use when I’ve had the last of the milk?

Though I don’t know why you insist on wasting money on something like that.  I could make something up easily enough.

[Sherlock Holmes](http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/) 2 May 19:42

 

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First: there’s not a chance in hell of you getting anywhere near me with homebrewed lube.  Don’t forget, I saw what your last experiment did to the kitchen table.

Second: that’s a fair point you make, though I believe you should be held accountable for the predictable consequences of those texts you sent me all last week.  If you want to fuck me when you get home, stop whinging and buy the damned stuff.

Third: how exactly is it ‘patently obvious’ that I’ve stayed faithful.  I have; of course I have; but there’s no way you can actually tell that from the text and email conversations we’ve been having.  Just no way.  I’ll lay money on it.

[John Watson](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/) 2 May 19:46

 

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Your money’s safe, John.  I meant that it’s patently obvious from the state of the flat.  Even if you were the type to stray, you’re not the type to leave an old pizza box sitting on the sofa with an illicit lover coming by.  Abominable shape you’ve left the place in, by the way.  If you weren’t able to sleep you might have at least tidied up a bit.

Should I make some tea for this little chat of ours, or will I need something stronger?

Edit: I did pick up some lube, by the way.  Several kinds, actually.  I may have gotten a bit carried away.

Edit: This one apparently ‘tingles and warms’.  That’s either intriguing or terrifying; I can’t quite decide.

[Sherlock Holmes](http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/) 2 May 19:48  
 _Edited 2 May 19:49_

 

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Are you _sat downstairs_ right now?  What the bloody—

Nevermind.  Sherlock, you’ve been gone two weeks; we can damned well talk later.  It takes me about fifteen seconds to get downstairs; you have exactly that long to shed any article of clothing it would upset you to have ruined.  I can’t promise anything left on you by the time I get there will remain intact.

[John Watson](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/) 2 May 19:50  



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